


Self-Conclusion

by PollutedFiction



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollutedFiction/pseuds/PollutedFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Wentz is sure that he wants to die, until the moment he doesn't. </p>
<p>Or, a personal piece that I wrote to vent out pent up emotions. Based on the song "Self-Conclusion" by The Spill Canvas, which I highly recommend listening to as a supplement to this fic, or just because it's a beautiful song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-Conclusion

The sky has never been more blue, nor the air more crisp and clean, than it was that day. Pete thinks there’s a metaphor in there somewhere about beauty and death, but he hadn’t brought a pen.

The sun has risen over the cliffs and is reflecting off of the snow, casting everything around him in a surreal glow. His sunglasses protect his eyes from the glare off of his car hood, where he sits chain smoking his last few cigarettes and basking in the first few minutes of calm he’s experienced in what feels like months, but is probably no more than a few days at most.

He didn’t care. He’d made up his mind.

Pete conceded with his own inner self-preservation instincts that he was known for having a penchant for the dramatic. He even accepted, though he did so silently, the fact that if he had taken his pills as prescribed, had gone to the therapist regularly, maybe even had kept writing things down and spilling his heart onto the pages, he may not be here. Here, on the edge of all things, staring out across canyons that mirrored his jagged, unforgiving edges and would soon become his permanent home. However, Pete was not one for fighting for something that didn’t grant him a warm body against his own. His life was only worth what he could do for the person he loved, and there was no one beside him anymore. His loneliness had become an ugly, living thing inside of him, whispering his sins in one ear and his imperfections in the other. There was no peace that a pill could give him. No stability or self-worth that a therapist could instill in him with words. After all, he himself was a commander of words. He spun them to suit his needs all the time. If anyone could’ve saved him with words alone, it would have been himself.

He stretches then like he has all the time in the world. Pulls in the last of his cigarette, exhales slow and lets himself truly _feel_. The wind is cool as it whispers across his skin. The metal of his car hood solid and unforgiving underneath him. His clothes are warm and perfectly worn in. And like a sickness true to it’s form, he thinks, _there is nothing but empty space surrounding me here_. 

He stands. Each step is another regret that he will cast out of the world when he casts himself over the edge. The ground is solid beneath his feet, until he’s right on the edge, toes just peeking over and out into the open, where there is nothing. He closes his eyes, inhales a deep breath, feels the wind blow hard against the side of his face. Reflex kicks in, and he turns his head to the side against the sting of the wind chill. He puts one leg forward, opens his eyes into slits for just a second - 

And there he stops. 

Standing about twenty to thirty feet away from him, half hidden by the dead trees and the brush, is a boy looking down off of the cliff edge with a look on his face that twists Pete’s gut like he’s been sucker punched. There is fear in that look. Fear and doubt and pain and all of the things Pete himself had felt in the days that lead him to this moment. What makes it worse, he thinks, is that the boy is _young_. Too young, a little pudgy with strawberry blonde hair that reflects the sunlight better than the snow on these cliffs could ever hope to. _‘You’d make mother nature herself jealous’_ , Pete thinks. _‘You can’t jump. She’d claim you as her own.’_ And that’s how Pete ends up taking a deep breath, shooting one last longing gaze at all of that open, open space, and pulling his leg slowly back to himself. 

He doesn’t give himself time to think after that. Instead he allows himself once glance down at himself, winces when he realizes he’s probably going to scare the shit out of this kid with the way he looks right now, and steps forward on light feet, making short work of the distance between them. The kid doesn’t once look up from his gaze into the canyon. ‘He’s not there yet.’ Pete thinks with relief. Pete knows this from experience. If this kid is second guessing himself, he might not be too far gone to save. He walks until he’s just a few feet behind the kid, and now that he’s closer Pete can see him shivering, ears tinged pink and shoulders hunched. He also hears a distinctly wet sniffle, and Jesus he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it if this kid turns around with a face full of tears.  
He’s just about to contemplate the best way to go about announcing himself when he runs out of time. 

The kid takes a deep, ragged breath, tenses himself up, and goes to move. Pete’s brain short circuits as he panics, and what ends up coming out is “Don’t be another statistic kid!” 

It’s almost comical, actually, the way the kid’s body flails as he stumbles back and lands with an _umphh!_ On the hard ground. 

He doesn’t stay on the ground for long, though. In the time it takes for Pete to manage to look guilty, the kid has scrambled to his feet and is crossing his arms over his chest protectively, looking into Pete’s eyes with what he assumes is supposed to be defiance, but ends up looking more like he just got caught with his hand down his pants. 

“I’m Pete” Pete supplies helpfully. The kid doesn’t look impressed. 

“I don’t care who you are.” He says in a voice that’s much smoother around the edges than Pete would’ve expected from a kid this young. Pete accepts this response with a nod, but takes an experimental step forward anyway, because suicidal or not, he is still Pete Wentz, and Pete Wentz knows that personal space is a myth. The kid backs up a step immediately, which puts him closer to the edge of the cliff, and Pete decides he has to rethink his strategy. 

“Yeah I wouldn’t care who I was either.” He tries. “But I’d be willing to bet a lot of people care who you are, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid” the kid defends immediately. Then, a little softer, “And no. No, they don’t.” Pete’s gut does that twisting thing again, and he wills it to stop, wills it to just _go away_ , because that feeling is what put him on these fucking cliffs in the first place. 

“Well, I care who you are.” Pete starts. He decides to try for casual, and he reaches into his hoodie pocket to retrieve a precious cigarette. “-shit” he’d forgotten he’d chain smoked them all before his attempted dive. He raises an eyebrow at the kid now, sizes him up. “And ok. Sure. You’re not a kid. How about a name then?” 

This makes the kid tighten his arms around himself, but Pete does end up getting the full force of that defiant gaze, and all Pete can think is ‘Hazel. Hazel and bright and too pretty for a boy.’ “Why would you care who I am? I don’t even know you. You could be a stalker, you could murder me and toss my body over-“ He cuts himself short, visibly flinches, and drops his gaze. Pete sees him close his eyes as his tremors return. 

“Kid. You’re not there yet.” He cuts straight to the point. “You’re not ready to die.” 

“How would you know? How would you anything about who I am or what I want?!” He spits, and Pete is patient. Pete waits, doesn’t take his eyes away. “You don’t get it. You _couldn’t fucking get it_.” The tears start coming then, streaming steady, and Pete swallows but holds steady as the kid starts to pace. His hands come up to his hair. His body is all out shaking now. “No one gets it dude, and I don’t even know who the hell you are! Did you follow me up here?” He shoots an accusatory look in Pete’s direction. 

“No.” Pete says softly. “I was up here before you got here.” 

“Well whatever!” The kid is all out shouting now. “I came up here to just fucking end all of this shit and I couldn’t even do that right! Some asshole like you had to be waiting around to ruin it!” He lurches forward, and Pete lets him. He lets this kid shove weakly at his chest and takes an obliging step backward. “How would you know if I’m ready to die or not? You don’t understand.” He takes another shove at Pete, and again, Pete goes. The fight leaves him then, and he slumps to the ground. 

“Kid. You don’t have a clue who you’re talking to. I understand a lot more than you think.” Pete crouches down next to him, doesn’t risk contact. “Like how your legs were itching to move, but your brain was telling you to stay. And how easy it all seemed when you decided to do it. How much better it seems like it would be. Easier.” He’s aware of how wistful he must sound, and that he’s giving himself away much sooner than he’d have liked. But it’s worth it when the kid looks up at him again, eyes filled with tears still but so much less guarded, and more in shock. 

“So when you said you were up here before me, you were gonna-?” 

Pete knows he doesn’t have to answer that question. The kid looks away again quickly. 

“Why?” He asks softly. “What happened to you?” 

“I can’t be alone.” Pete answers honestly. “My head is loud and my nightmares follow me into consciousness.” He does risk a simple touch then. Just a hand on the kid’s shoulder. He counts it as a victory when he doesn’t pull away. “What about you?” 

“I-“ he cuts himself off again, looks like he’s struggling to find the words. His breath goes ragged again. “I don’t know.” He finishes miserably. “I have friends. I have a mom and a dad and a brother at home. But they don’t get it. They don’t see it you know? I wake up, and the sun is shining, and my mom is making pancakes in the kitchen, and I think to myself ‘I shouldn’t be alive’. Stupid, huh?” 

“No.” Pete replies. “Depression isn’t stupid, kid.” 

“Patrick.” The kid says quietly. “My name is Patrick.” 

Pete smiles. “I’m Pete.” 

“I know” The kid, Patrick, huffs a small laugh, and Pete can’t help but grin. “You told me already.” Patrick looks unsure of himself for a moment before he looks up at him again. “Pete. How do you beat this? How do you get through this?” 

“You don’t” Pete is all about the honesty today. “You can’t. It’s an illness.” Patrick looks crestfallen, and Pete hurries on. “You can’t beat it, but you can fight it. And I’m not going to tell you it’s easy, or give you shitty motivation like some half assed therapist. It’s possible, Patrick, but you have to talk about it. You have to let them in, no matter how shitty it makes you feel on the inside and how much of a burden you think you are.” 

Patrick is looking at him with something between pain and awe now. 

“It’s like you know exactly what to say.” He says. Pete shrugs. 

“I’m just telling you what I wish someone would’ve told me.” 

The silence that hangs in the air then is thick. Patrick shifts himself to sit more comfortably on the ground, and Pete does the same, if only so he can watch the emotions play themselves out across his face. He is more patient with Patrick than he has ever been with himself, and he tells himself he is just doing the right thing. That no kid like this should ever feel like there is a reason good enough to throw himself into that open space. And maybe Pete is a hypocrite, but for as much as he would’ve liked to have taken that plunge, he couldn’t bear the thought of Patrick doing the same. Patrick, who he doesn’t know, but would like to. Patrick, who just happened to be on this cliff at the exact moment Pete was going to let himself fall. Patrick, who is young and pretty and depressed, and is looking at him now like he could fix everything. Pete swallows thickly, spares himself a minute of _‘I’m not good enough, don’t look at me like that, I’ll break you like I’ve broken everything else’_ , and says 

“Let me take you home.” 

“Yeah.” Patrick says in a voice that is filled with so much fear, and yet laced with so much hope. Pete is beginning to think he might be giving this kid Stockholme syndrome. He sighs and pushes himself up off the ground, offering a hand to help Patrick up. “Just…” Patrick takes his hand, pulls himself to his feet, and fixes Pete with that same defiant stare. “Just that you have to promise me.” He says. “Promise me that when we get back down there, and you take me home, and I tell them everything… Promise me it will get better.” 

Pete bites his lip “Patrick-“ 

“No.” The kid shakes his head and takes a step _backwards_ , and Pete moves forward immediately. Patrick puts a hand up to stop him, looking at him firmly. “Promise me. Because if I can’t have hope, then I don’t want anything. If I can’t look forward to _something_ , If I go back down there and everything aches and nothing relents, I will come back and I will throw myself over that cliff and none of you will see it coming.” 

Pete is embarrassed to find that he has tears in his eyes, now. 

“I can’t promise.” He starts on a raspy breath. Patrick looks pained but Pete keeps going. “I can’t promise that it will change immediately. And even when it gets better, there will be days when you wake up and it’ll be hanging over you like a predator. It waits in the darkest parts of your mind for you to drop your guard for even a second, and that’s when it strikes.” He steps closer, puts his hands on this god damn kid’s shoulders and looks him in the eyes. “But I can promise you that I’ll be there. When it’s dark and it’s hard to breathe, you call me. I’ll drop what I’m doing, Patrick. I’ll come and I’ll help you fight. I’m not much, I know. I’m broken and I lost some of my own pieces a long time ago. But I’ll give you whatever I have left. You won’t be alone anymore.” He feels like this is the next best thing. He feels like if he can’t end his life, if he can’t lose himself to that open, open nothingness, then at least he can give himself over to someone who still has a chance.

“You.” Patrick looks at him incredulously. “You don’t even know me.” Pete laughs a broken, desperate laugh. 

“No, but I’d like to change that, if you’ll let me.” 

“You’re insane.” Patrick states. 

“Yes.” Pete agrees easily. Patrick seems to consider this for a moment, sizes Pete up with a long sweeping look. 

“Ok then.” He finally says. “Pete…” 

“Wentz.” He finishes for him. 

“Right. Pete Wentz. I’m Patrick Stump.” Patrick’s full smile is dazzling, so bright that it makes Pete’s head spin, and he smiles back helplessly. “Now…will you take me home? I uh. I sorta left a note.” He says sheepishly. “They’ll be worrying about me.”  
He leads Patrick back to his car without another word. 

\- - - - - - - - 

There are cops _everywhere_ when Pete pulls up in front of Patrick’s house. It also looks like every person within 3 blocks have shown up on his front lawn, and Pete fails to hide his smile when he sees how Patrick’s eyes fill with awed tears as he takes it all in. 

“They were worried about you.” He says softly. He barely manages to throw the car in park before Patrick is throwing himself out the door, shouting ‘Mom! Dad!’ as he runs up the front lawn. Pete watches as a woman that is unmistakably Patrick’s mother lets out the most heartbreaking noise he’s ever heard in his life before Patrick throws himself into her arms, and before long there are people swarming him, and Pete loses sight of him. 

He takes a deep breath, feels the wetness on his cheeks but doesn’t bother to stop it. _‘You did good, Wentz.’_ He thinks to himself. _‘Now leave him to it. He doesn’t need you fucking this up.’_ And yes, that’s right. He would fuck this up, this swarm of love that he brought this kid back to. He would break and tear and devour every last scrap of good there was, until curses were being thrown and glass was being broken. Patrick would become like _her_ , spiteful and bitter and filled with so much hurt when he looked at him. Pete wouldn’t let that happen. 

With one last hopeful, longing look out the window, Pete puts his car in drive, and makes to leave before the cops can come and start asking him questions. 

“Pete!” he hears, and his foot hits the brake so fast he almost brains himself on the steering wheel. “Pete!” He throws the car back in park and looks up in time to see Patrick standing unsure by the passenger side door. He rolls the window down and manages a smile. “I-they wanted to meet you?” Patrick sounds scared, like Pete might say no. “Were you leaving? I thought-“ 

“I’m coming.” Pete cuts him off. He is a selfish creature. A selfish creature, but a man of his word nevertheless. If Patrick wants him here, among this group of love and hope and everything he’s always wanted, he will stay. At the very least, it gets him another smile. 

He gets out of the car. People are whispering, looking at him curiously, and he feels the weight of their stares down to his core. He doesn’t belong here, and he knows this. He looks out of place, and he knows this. But when Patrick takes his hand, starts to tug him along towards his crying mother and the rest of his family, he loses sight of all of it, and follows. His mother stares at him in an entirely different way, and it makes him humble. He drops his gaze, bows his head. 

“Mom. This is Pete Wentz.” Patrick says. “I would’ve… I couldn’t have if Pete hadn’t…” He’s tripping on his words again, voice cracking, and Pete is suddenly engulfed in a hug by a crying mother who has just had her son returned to her. He closes his eyes and fights back his tears as he hugs her back awkwardly. _‘When I get home tonight’_ he thinks, _‘I’m going to tell my mother that I love her.’_

“Pete Wentz.” Patrick’s mother says as she pulls away, though she does not release him. She holds him at arm’s length, inspects him and runs her hands up to press into his cheeks in a mom gesture that he’s gotten used to in his 23 years. “Will you stay for dinner?” Pete opens his mouth to say no, that he should really head home and let Patrick be with his family, but he catches a glimpse of Patrick’s hopeful face. 

There is trust there, and hope. In his face he sees the boy who looked out at a canyon with fear and pain and almost let it swallow him whole. He sees himself, with one leg over the edge of a cliff and no will to live. He sees the boy who he saved who also saved him. 

“Yes.” He says without taking his eyes off of Patrick Stump. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much if you took the time to read this, as it was a personal piece for me and the first thing I've written and finished in quite some time. I may expand on this in the future, who knows, but any comments and critiques are always welcome <3


End file.
